


A Christmas Miracle

by amo_amare



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Gift Fic, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:18:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amo_amare/pseuds/amo_amare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Sherlock is too smart for his own good. It's a good thing his big brother is smarter!  (Or: "Mycroft saves Christmas". :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Miracle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imriebelow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imriebelow/gifts).



> Written for the [Sherlockmas](http://sherlockmas.livejournal.com/62603.html) 2011 fic exchange.

The calm and gentle quiet of Christmas morning was broken not by church bells, the sound of bare feet padding down wooden stairs, nor by the whistle of the kettle. Mrs. Holmes had set her alarm to go off early, in hopes of having breakfast ready for her boys by the time they woke and scrambled from their beds, but she didn’t get a chance to hear it. Instead, she was jolted from slumber by the outraged shrieks of her youngest son as he charged from the parlour to the bottom of the staircase.

“You didn’t get it! It isn’t here! The _one thing_ I wanted!”

At 5 ⅔ years old ( _not_ 5 ½, thank you very much!), Sherlock Holmes was already a force to be reckoned with. “Napoleon” their housekeeper called him-- “the little dictator”. He had the mental acuity of a first year university student, with the emotional maturity of a five year-old, and the social skills of a misanthropic baboon. This morning, he was on the rampage.

His mother found him in his room, packing socks and books into an old suitcase that used to belong to his father. “Sherlock,” she inquired, injecting much more patience into her voice than she actually felt. “Sherlock, darling, what are you doing?”

He gave her one of his looks, the one that always made her wonder whether she’d not given birth to a curmudgeonly and cantankerous old man in the body of a curly-haired child. The look was full of disdain. “Isn’t it obvious, Mother? I’m packing!”

Obvious, yes: it was a familiar scene she was bound to recognize. Ever since finding the old suitcase stored away in the attic, ‘I’m packing my things and I’m never coming back!’ had become her young son’s favorite coping mechanism for any situation in which he didn’t get his way. Her only confusion came because she wasn’t sure exactly _why_ he was packing this time. It was Christmas morning: beneath the tree were stacked dozens of presents with his name on them just waiting to be opened. Surely no five year-old, not even one as precocious and temperamental as her young son, could be disappointed at such a display?

“Sherlock,” she began, trying to stop him so she could peer into his face. “Why are you packing? What’s wrong? Hasn’t Father Christmas come?”

He gave her the Look again. He’d dismissed the idea of Father Christmas almost as soon as he was old enough to grasp it.

“If only there _were_ a magical, all-knowing man who delivered gifts in a sleigh! I’m sure _he_ would have gotten me the one gift I wanted!”

She knew right away the gift he was talking about: the microscope. He’d mentioned it daily since late November, when he found the advertisement in the back of his favorite science magazine. “The most sophisticated microscope available for home use” the advert had said. She’d placed an order for it the morning she woke up to find a consumer’s digest review of the device taped to the inside of her shower.

She grabbed at her young son’s shoulder as he moved past her carrying the travel cage for his white rat, Algernon. “Sherlock, how do you know you didn’t get the microscope?” Her face colored as a thought occurred to her. “Did you open your gifts, young man? I very expressly told you last night that you were to wait for the rest of the family before you...”

“I know!” He wriggled his way out of her grasp and pouted. “And I didn’t! I did _not_ open my presents, I just _examined_ them!”

A scowl directed over Mrs. Holmes shoulder told her her eldest son Mycroft had joined them. Unsurprisingly, he had taken the time to dress and make himself presentable before coming to see what the commotion was about: he wore tan, pressed trousers, brown loafers, and a white dress shirt. His hair was neatly parted and combed. More than 10 years senior, he was the calm Eye to his hurricane of a younger brother.

Mrs. Holmes sighed. “What do you mean you examined them?” She moved past her older son to peer over the railing at the scene of the Christmas tree down below. All of the gifts had been sorted into piles: by size and by recipient. The bathroom scale had been dragged out, and lay amidst a group of presents she recognized as Sherlock’s.

Sherlock continued packing, ranting and raving the whole time. “None of the packages were the right size, _or_ the right weight! I made a list of what I think all the gifts are, and everyone got what they wanted but me! Mycroft got his new word processor and the silk ties he wanted, _plus_ the collection of biographies of “Great British Leaders!” Mummy got perfume and slippers and a new dressing gown! Gran got a leather handbag! And I got some silly, stupid building toys and some clothes and an encyclopedia set, but _not_ the microscope I wanted!”

For a good, long beat his mother just stared. Her sons may not be the most conventional sort of boys, but she did her best to fill their childhood with love and understanding. They may not appreciate the magic of Christmas, but she still wanted to give them a morning of happiness and surprises. She’d tried _so hard_ to keep her shopping a secret, and to get the boys what they wanted plus a few surprises they wouldn’t see coming. She’d been looking forward to the look on Sherlock’s face when he opened the building set he now denounced as silly, and to seeing Mycroft’s reaction to the books of British leaders she just knew he’d enjoy. She didn’t know how Sherlock managed to figure out the identity of every single gift under the tree without opening the wrapping, but now it didn’t matter: the surprises were ruined.

Her voice was shaking now as she spoke. “Sherlock, I don’t know how you...but I...” She took a moment to compose herself, and felt the hand of her oldest son come to rest on her shoulder.

“Mummy!” he said. “It’s OK, let me...”

“I don’t know what happened!” she whispered so only he could hear. “I know I got him that microscope, and now...”

“I know, Mum! Just please, let me...”

All she could do was nod, stepping back and wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her dressing gown.

Mycroft cleared his throat and waited for his brother to stop what he was doing and look at him. How he managed to do it, Mrs. Holmes did not know: she could never bring herself to ask her own son how he managed to solicit the cooperation of his younger brother better than his own mother could.

“You examined all the presents?” Mycroft began.

Sherlock answered him at first with a scowl. When Mycroft continued to wait, he nodded. “Yes! I examined all of them, and none of them...”

Mycroft silenced him with a raised hand. “Even after our talk about ‘the Spirit of Christmas’, and how this was a special day for Mummy, and we are not to ruin it?”

The scowl deepened, until it turned into an uncertain pout. “I didn’t open anything! I didn’t break my promise!”

“Do you remember when we talked about obeying the _spirit_ of a request, rather than just the literal wording of it?”

Sherlock held onto his defiance, but it was starting to give way. “Yes but, why can’t people say _exactly_ what they mean? If I can’t measure and weigh the gifts, she should have said...”

A look from his brother stopped him. Mrs. Holmes listened on in a hushed silence. Once again, the strange yet grudgingly affectionate relationship between her children was beyond her grasp.

Another moment of silence, and the facade of the indignant old man began to melt from Sherlock’s features, the little boy starting to peek through. “I just wanted that microscope...”

Mycroft spoke soothingly. “And you examined _all_ the gifts, or just your own?”

“I looked at all of them! Everything under the tree...” He stopped when he realized his error; a smile broke out across his face. “But I didn’t look through the gifts in the kitchen! The ones that aren’t for the family...”

The excited little boy made a beeline down the stairs and to the back of the house, his mother and brother following after him. When they caught up, he was busy testing the size and weights of the gifts Mrs. Holmes had purchased for members of the household staff. He paused when he came to a parcel that _should_ have been a bottle of scotch for the chauffeur, Mr. Halbrook. “This one’s too heavy!” he announced with a grin. “Mummy, can I open it?”

Her heart nearly broke at the look on his face: it was full of pure little boy delight. It was just the reaction she’d been hoping for from her son on Christmas morning. A small smile from Mycroft told her that Sherlock had guessed correctly, and she nodded. “Of course, darling!” She had trouble speaking around the lump in her throat.

Sherlock tore through the paper with uncharacteristic eagerness, and when he found just the present he’d been waiting for beneath the layers of ribbon and silver foil, his eyes shone with pleasure and delight.

Mycroft knelt down beside his little brother and whispered in his ear, “Now what do you want to say to Mummy?”

Mrs. Holmes had to laugh: she could see the clockwork moving in her son’s brain as he quickly scanned for the response appropriate to the situation. When he found it, he smiled. “Thank you, Mummy!”

Mycroft nudged him gently. “And...?”

Sherlock stared at his brother, frowning: the answer to this one was harder.

Mycroft gestured with his head, down the hall and out to the lounge, where their mother’s careful arrangement of Christmas presents lay scattered around the floor.

Sherlock looked at his gift, and then back up at his mother. Leaving the heavy box on the floor, he moved to stand in front of her. “I’m sorry, Mummy,” he said, just a hint of a waver to his voice. He buried his face in her side and wrapped his thin arms around her waist.

“It’s all right, my darling,” she soothed, stroking one hand through his dark, silky curls. With the other, she wiped away the stray tear that spilled from her eye.

When the little boy let go, Mycroft gestured them toward the Christmas tree and the rest of the gifts. “Go on and get settled: I’ll put the kettle on.”

As Sherlock lugged his gift away with him, Mrs. Holmes moved to wrap her oldest boy in a tight embrace. He returned the hug somewhat stiffly, before placing a kiss on his mother’s cheek.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she confessed.

He smiled, and gently nudged her toward the tree, and the rest of Christmas morning.


End file.
